Closer, Just a Little Closer
by grumkinsnark
Summary: If Sam could get close to Dean, closer, he knows that whatever is wrong with him could be fixed.  After many attempts, he finally gets it right.   NO WINCEST.


Yes, yet another sharp_teeth prompt response. I'm a slave to them! Warnings: gore, and some psycho!Sammeh. Don't blame me for the dark, creepy nature of this fic...blame the prompter!

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**Closer, Just a Little Closer…**

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In the beginning, Sam just thinks it's that he hasn't seen his brother in a while. That the fact that finally, _finally_, he's able to see Dean, banter with Dean, hunt with Dean, is the reason why his eyes slide over to his brother at odd intervals. Usually when Dean isn't looking, like Dean's a calculus equation that Sam wants to decipher, but sometimes when Dean _is_ looking, like Dean's a tiger in the wild, and Sam wants to encage him, but needs to make the tiger not fear him.

It's at those times that Dean often says something along the lines of, "Dude, you're creeping me out," and Sam will say, "Sorry. Just zoned out," and Dean will say, "Whatever."

And things will go back to normal.

But slowly, ever so slowly, Sam feels his chest tightening, knows it's the evil inside him that had never quite been expunged, despite the fact that someone—some_thing_—had brought him back from the Pit. The demon blood inside him makes his veins enflame, make his head feel like it will explode.

He looks at Dean some more, as if waiting to see if Dean will say, "Sam, you okay? Shit, man, you look like you're gonna pass out. _Shit_, Sam, you're burning up," but Dean never does. Because Dean can't see inside Sam, can't see the blood boiling beneath the surface of his skin, doesn't find anything wrong with the veins bulging upwards, doesn't notice that Sam has doubled his exercise regime in the hopes that he can sweat out the fever, the _wrongness_.

One fight goes badly for them, giving Sam a dislocated knee and Dean a long gouge down his bicep. He manages to pop Sam's patella back into place despite the injury, while Sam threads string through a needle. He disinfects the cut with alcohol, then goes to work.

The first stitches go fine; nothing either brother hadn't done dozens of times before. But soon the pressure from the needle coaxes rivulets of blood down Dean's arm. It's distracting. The dark, viscous red slowly making trails, zigzagging at will. Sam stares at it, fixated. His hand continues moving, and in his inattention, the needle pokes deep into Dean's skin.

Dean swears, and with his good hand, he swats Sam upside the head. Sam blinks, looks back at his brother. Then he looks down, at the half-finished patch-up job. He stares at the needle still sticking inside Dean curiously. Languidly, he takes it out and begins sewing again, watching as his hand, seemingly of its own volition, stitches the wound closed. Sam's left hand feels like it's on fire, like it wants to touch the wound, unthread the stitches and peer at the blood, the torn skin, prod at the red-blue bruising. God, if he could have only gotten _closer_…

After the job is done, gauze and an Ace bandage wrapped around it, Dean commands Sam to get some rest, thinking Sam had somehow garnered a concussion. As Sam lays down, his back to a now-sleeping Dean, he gazes at the whitewashed wall, retrospective. Part of him thinks that what's going through his head is downright _freakish_, but mostly he feels…energized. His head isn't on fire, his temperature is no longer feverish, he's…calm.

He clenches his fists once, twice, feeling the stickiness of Dean's blood that hadn't quite gotten scrubbed clean. A corner of his mouth lifts, then he smiles a full grin, realizing that for the first time since he'd been raised from Hell, that constant sensation of _wrong_ has subsided. He feels a little punch-drunk, and he's not sure what all this means, but _fuck_ does he want this new sensation to stay.

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It isn't long before they're back in a dingy motel room, banged up and bleeding. Sam knows the flawless hunting routine he and Dean had had long ago is skewed, and he has no doubt it's the reason they really should be at the hospital right now.

But between Sam's having dealt with worse than this by himself during the last year, and Dean's obstinacy, neither are willing to go to a doctor. They're both dripping blood as they gingerly step through the door, beelining towards the first aid kit. Dean, best as they can tell, has got a hairline fractured radius, Sam with a nasty head laceration and a twisted ankle. Sam says they need to take care of Dean's injury first, despite the fact that the entire left side of his face is red from the leaking wound on his scalp. Dean protests, but ultimately doesn't have the strength to keep up an argument.

Sam steps across the room to sit next to Dean on one of the beds, gesturing for his brother's arm. He can see the off-kilter position of the bone, and as he takes the arm in his hand, he feels a rush of satisfaction flow through his body. Power. He looks at the limb in fascination. Lightly, ever so curiously, he starts to twist it, hearing the faint grind of bone against bone. His head immediately loses its fever, his heart beat steadies, he feels almost…_normal_. God, if he could just get _closer_…

Dean lets out a yelp of pain, grasping Sam's wrist to get him to stop twisting. Sam drags his eyes up to his brother's, somewhat perplexed. At the raw agony he sees in Dean's eyes, he vaguely notes that he's worsening the injury. The desire to continue is nearly overwhelming, but he manages to align the bone as it should be, affix a splint, and wrap it all with a bandage. Dean downs four aspirin and a swig of whiskey, then lies down on the bed, praying for a painless sleep.

Sam sits there for a few moments, the twisting bone no longer at his mercy like a phantom limb in his hands. He smiles again and closes his eyes, glad for the blessed moments of normalcy he feels. Offhand, he acknowledges that the actions he undertakes in order to feel that normalcy are whacked, that he's _hurting_ his brother, but he thinks that Dean would understand. That Dean would be willing to undergo some pain in order to get his little brother to not feel on fire all the time. Yes, Dean would understand.

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The next time it happens, Dean's too wounded to even drive back to the motel, unconscious in the front seat, head lolling on the window. The tang of coppery blood is thick in the air, assaulting Sam's nose. They're a good twenty miles from the motel, and the stench is stifling. Sam pulls off to the side of the road, leaning his head back against the seat. He inhales deeply, the copper engulfing his senses.

He looks over at his sleeping brother, his eyes roaming from the long scratch on Dean's face, to the dislocated shoulder, to the knife wound in his side. Sam thinks he should pay attention to his own list of injuries, but all he can do is stare at his brother.

Slowly, quietly, he reaches his hand out and prods at Dean's shoulder. Dean's eyes shoot open at the pain, a moan escaping his lips. "Sammy?" he whispers, craning his head to look at his brother. "Shit, that hurts. Where're we?"

"Just taking a break, Dean," replies Sam.

"Need a hospital," says Dean, having no hesitation about the words, even though hospitals are his least favorite places to go—_least fucking favorite_.

"In a second," answers Sam, flicking his eyes from Dean's shoulder to Dean's side. He presses his fingers to the wound, feeling the blood soak through Dean's shirt and stain his fingers scarlet.

Dean grunts in pain. "The hell, Sam?" he yells. He tries to punch Sam, but his dislocated shoulder prevents movement. "Wha're you _doing_? Fuckin' _stop that_!"

Sam presses harder, blood dripping down and dissolving into the leather seats. Dean shifts in his seat, trying to get at Sam, stop the anguish, but Sam's hand moves from the knife wound to Dean's shoulder again, moving the bones around. Dean screams, the sound ringing in Sam's ears. There's a part of him that echoes Dean's sentiments, that what he's doing is psychotic, but the feeling of _normal_ is back in his head, and he relishes it.

Of course, he's not heartless. He pushes his thumb into Dean's neck, and a few seconds later, Dean slumps back unconscious, leaving silence in his wake. Sam moves back to the knife wound, pulling the skin apart and peering inside. The muscles and tendons are injured, blood spilling out, and Sam wonders what it'd be like to study them up close, whether it'd keep his head feeling like it's not aflame, cool down his veins to a simmer instead of a boil.

"Thanks, Dean," he says to his unresponsive brother. "I think I finally figured out what's wrong with me. I mean, _nothing's_ wrong with me, I see that now. I just needed some help from my big brother is all."

Sam smiles as he prods at Dean, heart steady, head cooled, blood at a comfortable temperature.

"Closer," Sam mutters, "That's all it took. Just needed to get a little closer…"


End file.
